Moments of the Past
by leah61909
Summary: Collection of one-shots. Companion piece to "Typical Adventure for an Unlikely Character." First story: Once a year, Manhatten and Brooklyn get together to share ghost stories. This year, Spot Conlon wants Leah "Clove" Brinks to share something she's written, and he won't take no for an answer. But Clove decides to give him more than what he bargained for. Rated T to be safe.


**Author's Note**: **This is a collection of one-shots connected to my Newsies fic "A Typical Adventure for an Unlikely Character." If you haven't read that story, it's not a requirement to understanding anything that happens here. And if you have read the story, that's cool too. I don't think I'll write a sequel to it, at least not anytime soon. But this moment came to me a little while after I finished it. And since I haven't written anything for in a while I decided to publish it on the site. If I think of more little moments between the end of the strike and Leah's going home, they'll most likely end up here.**

** Disclaimer: I don't own anything connected to Newsies. The only characters I own here are Leah, Ginny, and Charlie. Everything else belongs to Disney.**

Moment 1: Are you sorry you asked?

July, 1899

It was like any other ordinary night on the roof of the newsboys' lodging house. Now that the strike was over, I had more time on my hands for whatever I liked to do, which—at the moment—was writing. On clear nights like this I would sit as close to the window as I could and write whatever I wanted. On this particular night I was composing poetry about the stars, using a happy memory of the night sky as my inspiration. I was just about finished when Spot Conlon opened the window to join me.

"What're ya writin' this time, Clover?" He asked, sitting down next to me.

"Just another poem, nothing special," I said as I quickly folded the sheet of paper and tucked it into my pocket.

"You write a lot of things, but you never share with the Newsies," Spot remarked. "We could use some hope of another writer in the papes, one who can actually tell a story so that we don't have to. Ya know, like Denton."

"You know I'm not interested in journalism, Spot," I said. "Headlines don't sell papes, you know that. Besides, a lot of my friends back home never read what I write. Too many cooks spoil the broth, I always say."

"No you don't."

I shot him a pointed look. "It's a figure of speech, Conlon. It's just a motto I use for not sharing anything I write until it's published."

Spot was deep in thought for a while. Then he started grinning mischievously, and I panicked inside. I may not be as scared of him as I was when I met him, but he could still give me the creeps when I least expected him to. "Did Jack tell ya that Brooklyn and Manhattan are gonna hang out here next Wednesday night?"

"No, he didn't." Since we sold newspapers every day, I was surprised that Newsies could remember the days of the week at all. Then again, I did occasionally check the top of the newspapers to stay updated on the day of the year.

"We do it once a year to tell ghost stories and snuff out Newsies who can't soak to save their own lives," Spot explained. "I expect to hear one of yer writings, or I'll shove you off of the Brooklyn Bridge."

The Brooklyn Bridge?! "You wouldn't dare!"

Spot smirked. "Try me."

"You don't think he's actually going to push you off the bridge, do you?" Charlie asked.

It was the next morning and my cousins and I were with Racetrack for the day, looking for a good area to sell papers that didn't involve the horse races (Racetrack was now broke and I was responsible for making sure he didn't spend any of his earnings for the day). On the way, I told my cousins Ginny and Charlie about my run-in with Spot from the night before.

"Charlie, this is Spot Conlon we're talking about," Ginny moaned. "Of course he'd shove her off of the bridge."

"Nah, he wouldn' do that Chuck," Racetrack said airily. "Most likely he'd engage 'er in a fight before clubbing her with his cane, putting her in a sack, and then leavin' it at the Harlem border."

"Oh, terrific," I muttered. "You Newsies are all alike; just when I start to get used to you, somebody just has to kick it up a notch."

"Momentai," Racetrack said nonchalantly. Since the end of the strike, the Newsies had taken to using my motto whenever I was the one in need of a 'Momentai'. I still didn't know how to feel about that. "If it makes ya feel any better, Spot ain't as high and mighty as he likes the Newsies to believe."

"Care to elaborate?" I asked, starting to smile.

"Well, on his first year of ghost stories, Jackal—the King of Brooklyn at that time—was tellin' stories about the rattle snakes in Santa Fe. Jack liked hearin' 'em, obviously, but Spot was so scared stiff that he didn' sleep a wink that night."

"How bad were those stories?" Charlie asked.

"Not that bad. But those rattle snakes sent people to hospitals and killed a few, and Jackal liked illustratin' details in his stories."

"Really?"

I smirked like the Grinch who stole Christmas. If it was a story Spot Conlon wanted me to tell, it was a story he was going to get.

That afternoon I used my earnings to buy me the amount of paper I needed. I used the rest of the week planning and writing. Racetrack talking about Spot's fear of snakes reminded me of a horror story one of my co-workers told the rest of the work crew during the previous summer. I was afraid of snakes enough as it was, but the story he told made me vow to never allow a snake in my house even if my own life depended on it. The story didn't scare me much now, so I tweaked the details a little and added more to it, remembering that I was in the late 19th century. I could not wait to tell the story, and I especially could not wait to see the look on Spot Conlon's face when I read it out loud.

Wednesday night came quickly, and by the time the last of our papers were sold the other borough had arrived, with the big man himself at the front. He and Jack spit shook, as usual, and after that we hung out at the lodging house until sundown, talking and laughing and occasionally singing whatever songs we knew. Nightfall finally arrived, and the two borough leaders silenced the large crowd of Newsies.

"It's that time of year when we tell ghost stories to snuff out the scabs," Jack started. "But this year we've got only one story—" (here a handful of Newsies groaned) "—because our lucky four leaf Clover here has a story to share with us."

The groaning ended and the Newsies looked interested, especially Manhattan. I gave them a sweet smile as I sat down on the floor and organized the scraps of paper I had used to write the story.

"Ready for lights out, Clover?" Jack asked.

"Ready when you guys are."

The room darkened in an instant, the only light coming from a lantern sitting behind me so I could see the words on the papers. Using the light provided, I cleared my throat and—after throwing a quick mischievous glance at Spot—began to read.

"Not long ago, there lived a professor and his daughter, Katherine. Now, the professor was a herpetologist, meaning that he studied a certain subject for a living. That subject…was snakes."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Spot's smirk had vanished. Fighting a grin, I continued.

"One day, while he was out in the woods, he found himself a baby python without a home. Being the generous man he was—and due to his fondness for snakes—he took the python home with him and raised him as his own. Many years later, the baby python had grown too big to fit inside its cage, and the professor could not find another one to fit the reptile. So he left town and instructed Katherine to care for it while he was gone.

"A week had passed and he had not been successful in his search. But by then, many peculiar things had begun to occur. Each night, Katherine would wake up in the middle of the night to notice that the python was right next to her in her bed—completely stretched out, not moving an inch, watching her. Each day, it refused to eat the mice Katherine was trying to feed it. Finally, she called her father and explained the problem."

I was getting to the climax. I slowed down a little and made my voice grow huskier and darker as I spoke. I dared not look at Spot lest I lose my concentration and ruin the story.

"'Katherine, you must get the snake out of there immediately!' He moaned. 'He is measuring you up with his body and he is fasting before his next big meal!' But it was too late. She turned around right then to find the python attacking her, coiling itself around her neck, strangling her as he prepared his meal. The python was so strong that no one, not even the man on the phone, could hear Katherine scream. That large snake swallowed her alive. But he was still hungry.

"On the other end of the phone, the herpetologist worried for his daughter's safety. So he returned home—"

"DON'T EAT THE DAD!" One of the newsies shrieked, his voice sounding shrill. "DON'T EAT THE DAD!"

"Oh, that snake ate the dad, alright," I chuckled. "No one knew what happened. Eventually, the house fell into disrepair. No one knows where the snake is now, but many claim that he is still at the place of Katherine's death, waiting for his next meal to arrive. Which reminds me, do you know what they built right where Katherine's home was?"

The little Newsies, who looked about ready to pass out, shook their heads vigorously. I was kind of sorry that they had to suffer, but I remembered that Jack was fighting his laughter behind me, and this whole thing was intended to scare Spot, so I continued with an evil smirk.

"The Brooklyn Lodging house."

Spot's jaw dropped, and many of the Newsies gasped. One of them even screamed in terror.

Jack lost it and began laughing so hard I could hear him banging his fists on the floor. The other Manhattan Newsies—the ones around Jack's age, anyway—joined in, and I smirked once more as I lit another lantern and allowed more light to come into the room.

"And that, Spot Conlon, is why you don't blackmail me into sharing my work."

**Well, I hope you guys liked it. Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions for future one-shots?**


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